Faith
by Kellen
Summary: When tragedy strikes, a family must pull together in the midst of uncertainy and grief to save those most affected. Sort of a Legolas coming of age story.
1. Prologue

Faith

by Kellen

Feedback: Please, since this is a stretch for me. Here or at kellenanne@yahoo.com or kellen@writing.com

Disclaimers: There are original characters in this story, but the concept, and some characters are to be credited to JRR Tolkien and his estate.

Author's Warning: Despite my record, this is short on humor, long on angst. To put it quite bluntly, there is lots of death and lots of anger and crying and screaming and danger. If you found a Kellen fic to find something to laugh at, kindly hit your browser's back button and go find my other fics. 

Rating: PG-13 

Summary: When tragedy strikes, a family must pull together in the midst of uncertainy and grief to save those most affected. Sort of a Legolas coming of age story. 

Author's Note: Since Tolkien left so much to the imagination when it comes to Legolas' family, original characters run rampant. This is not Mary Sue, it is not a self-insert, even though a young girl is part of the main focus of the story. It is merely a "family" fic, and a survival fic, and frankly I needed a character who is quite vulnerable. A young girl is. Thank you for your consideration in this. 

Faith

Prologue

The wood was deceptively silent. Even the small patrol riding through the spotty sunlight made almost no noise, and one would have thought that armed riders in the forest were the natural order of things. Such was the way of the Elves, though. They belonged with nature, forever in harmony with Arda. That was the intent of Iluvitar. 

Such beautiful things rarely go as intended.

One of the Elves, a dark-haried one riding beside his leader, shifted on his horse. "Do you feel -" he whispered.

Taricir, the leader, nodded. "Aye, I do, Mener." He turned to Mener, bow in hand. "It worries me not, however." He smiled, but Mener knew, despite his apparent ease, Taricir was more than ready to reach into his quiver when needed. "We are more than a match for any fell creature."

Mener laughed softly even as he strung his bow. "You never cease to amaze me."

Taricir shrugged. "I do that well, don't I?"

Mener smiled and they rode in silence for a moment before Mener turned a concerned gaze on Taricir. Taricir nodded and Mener held up his hand, halting the patrol. Only the soft rattle of weapons permeated the unnatural silence. 

"How fares Bronwe?" Mener asked as he sighted along his bow. The arrow quivered ever so slightly, as if in anticipation. 

Taricir patted his big mare's neck. "Ready," he answered. 

"It is well, then." As soon as Mener finished speaking, a great cry rose and the first of the orcs broke through the trees near them.

Time seemed to pass slowly, but it was mere seconds before the orcs were too close for arrows to be effective. The orcs dove into the patrol, pushing the Elves away from each other.

Silence ruled the day no longer.

Taricir felt Bronwe tense, and the fearless mare surged forward to meet the rush of the orcs. As Taricir put his bow, then his blade to use, so did Bronwe her hooves. The horse whirled, never unbalancing her master, never putting him in greater danger. Mener watched for a moment in awe, as he always did when he saw Bronwe and Taricir move; it was as if Bronwe knew the Elf she carried into battle was the kingdom's heir. He was to be protected, as well as respected, in battle. In Mener's eye, Bronwe was as much a warrior as any of their patrol. She had saved Taricir more times than any of the Elven warriors had, and had killed more foul creatures than any one warrior had. 

Mener had switched from bow to sword and raised it high, yelling a challenge to orcs charging him. He urged his own green colt forward and the slight youngling responded without hesitation. All around them, the patrol was engaged. In theory, they were to work as a unit. Unfortunately, the orcs did not always honor the Elven theories. As it stood, the patrol was still trying to come back together after the flood of orcs forced them apart, but trying was not doing and each warrior, it seemed, was fighting individual battles. 

They would be decimated that way. 

Mener swung his blade in a wide arc, neatly cleaving through an orc neck that strayed too close to the horse's side and kicked the body away. Another orc, unfortunately being smart enough to see that Mener was momentarily occupied, came in on the other side. The colt, too inexperienced in the ways of battle, tried valiantly to move his master out of the way, but only made matters marginally better. Mener was unable to bring his blade back across in time, but instead of the blade sinking deep into his side as it was meant to, the blade bit into Mener's arm. The cruel point skated along the bone, tearing mercilessly through his shoulder. The colt danced sideways as Mener cried out, inadvertantly taking the Elf away from immediate danger. Then, in a move that proved to Mener the colt would rival Bronwe's status as a warrior, the colt lept into the air, twisted sideways and brought both forehooves down onto the head and shoulders of the orc that had attacked Mener. Mener grabbed at the horse's mane in order to stay astride as the colt trampled the orc. His sword fell to the ground, making no noise in the uproar. 

Taricir urged Bronwe toward the remnant of his patrol that had managed to come together. He knew they could not fight like this, not separated from each other. He'd already seen Mener take injury, and had seen three or four Elves cut down. "To me," he cried, pitching his voice so it soared over the battle sounds. Bronwe faltered as her shoulder collided with an orc. Taricir felt her misstep and for one terrible moment, he thought they were going down. He tensed, prepared to jump away but Bronwe scrambled for purchase, going down on one knee before she surged upward and rejoined the tired patrol who were slowly, wearily gathering together. 

But Taricir could feel they were not gaining headway. It wasn't until Taricir managed to join them that spirit was revived and the Elves determination soared again. He could see Mener, battling one-handed, obviously in much pain, not too far from him. Taricir allowed a grim smile. That colt Mener was working had instincts nearly as good as Bronwe's. The youngling was protecting his master with a ferocity that Taricir admired and he made a note to praise Mener later for the Elf's choice in horses to train. 

He was making his way toward Mener, to help protect his second, when Bronwe misstepped again. Without conscious thought, Taricir stabbed an orc -- he'd long since stopped counting -- and tried to bring Bronwe back toward the relative protection of his circle of warriors. She limped again, this time a whinny escaping her as she set weight on the leg.

Mener looked up, swiveling his gaze to find Bronwe. That whinny -- it was sure to be her. He knew it as well as he knew Taricir's voice. But he also knew that Bronwe was typically quiet during a skirmish. She fought ferociously, yes, and was more fearless than most Elves he knew, but she never made a sound. 

Unless something was wrong. 

Relief filled him when Mener found Taricir alive and whole, if concerned about his mount. It was short-lived though. His colt reared in response to several orcs taking advantage of Mener's distraction. Mener, who had been fighting by using his bow as a staff, scrambled for some semblance of control as the colt twisted. An orc, finding the opportunity he waited for, darted in on the colt's unprotected side and drove a spear into the horse's side, just in front of Mener's leg. The colt screamed, going down, and Mener, injured as he was was unable to leap from the horse's back. The Elf landed hard, his head cracking against the cold ground. His bow clattered out of suddenly senseless fingers. Orcs shouted gleefully.

Taricir lept from Bronwe's back -- she'd never be able to reach Mener in time -- when he saw the spear drive into the colt's side. Panic put a burst of speed to his feet and he plowed into the fray with a gracelessness born of desperation. He blocked the sword coming down on Mener's neck, and while he deflected the blade prodded Mener's side, praying to all that was holy that the Elf would wake up and move. He was so busy protecting the insensate Elf that he couldn't do a thing about the orc he knew was behind him. "Mener," he called. "Wake up." He parried again, frustration and desparation growing. "Mener!"

It was Taricir's last act among the living. The blade behind him sank into his back. He turned dimming eyes onto Mener, pleading wordlessly that Mener not join him this day in the Halls of Mandos. When Mener's eyes fluttered open, and he started to move, Taricir let go, knowing at least his friend had a chance.

Mener came to hearing his name called franticly. His first sight was that of Taricir dying. His commander seemed to dim, his eyes losing their glow. Mener's grief manifested in a rage never before seen by those around him. Soon, the patrol had rallied, and the orcs fled. 

They gathered their dead, solemnly bearing the once-heir of Mirkwood back to the home he'd never see again.


	2. Part One

Faith

by Kellen

Notes, disclaimers, summary, etc are on the prologue. 

Feedback: Please. Constructive, flames or otherwise. LoL. Either here or on my email at kellenanne@yahoo.com

Part One

Thranduil had been deeply involved in his work. Penning missives were never his favorite thing, and despite the seriousness of the situation he wrote about -- but lately, weren't they all serious? -- he smiled as he laid down the quill and in a move that some would call decided un-Elven, he rolled his neck, sighing as the kinks worked themselves out. Smiles and relief had been in short supply lately for the Elvenking. His family was still reeling from the loss of his wife, and his sons had been spending more and more time patroling the borders of Mirkwood.   
  
With the arrival of the company Legolas served in yesterday, Thranduil felt more at ease. The day would come when Legolas would command his own patrol, but he was young yet. Thranduil's eldest son, Taricir, commanded a patrol to the south - an area that was, to put it mildly, hazardous. Taricir, however, had more experience and was, by all accounts, intelligent in such matters. Thranduil worried for his son's safety, but felt supremely confident in Taricir's abilities, and those in his patrol. Mener would give his life in place of Taricir's, and -- Thranduil had to smile wryly at his next thought -- Bronwe, his son's mount, was loyal to a fault.   
  
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, Taricir should be returning quite soon. Thranduil left his study and went to roaming his halls as he was wont to do when the lazy afternoon hours sometimes came upon him. He had engaged himself in lightnearted banter with Galion when a commotion rose, emanating from the entryway into the palace. Thranduil strained, hearing the words he desparately wanted -- "the patrol's back" -- and Galion delighted in seeing his King's eyes light up like a youngling's at the promise of Taricir being back.   
  
Thranduil smiled and excused himself from Galion's company and strode down the hallway. His smile faltered however, when he started hearing more and more bits of information. "Ambushed" was a word he always hated, "wounded" right up there with it, but he held hope still. Taricir, and even Legolas had come back with many, many war stories and both had sported injuries from an orc's blade upon returning to Mirkwood's halls. It was when he heard "dead" being bandied about that Thranduil stilled, a knife of icy despair striking his heart. He shook his head. "Dead" did not mean Taricir. They could be talking about anyone in the patrol.   
  
But then, he hadn't heard Taricir's voice yet.   
  
By why come to the palace except to bear bad news?  
  
Thranduil steeled himself, expecting to be met by a somber son berating himself. That would explain the silence. That's why he hadn't heard Taricir's voice.  
  
Wasn't it?  
  
Thranduil stepped into the entryway, met instead by a bloodied, barely conscious Mener. The Elf stood on his feet, swaying precariously. Blood had pooled at his feet, and Thranduil, in the part of his mind that wasn't panicking, noted that he'd been bandaged and treated. His wound had most likely torn open again under the bandages quite recently. Thranduil's hand fisted even as he moved forward, past servants uncertain of how to proceed, and caught Mener's shoulders. "Mener?" His voice trembled.  
  
Mener shook his head, dark locks limp, and turned fevered eyes on Thranduil. "My Lord... I..."  
  
And Mener didn't have to say another word. Thranduil shook Mener's shoulders, mouthing a quiet "no." Mener clasped the King's wrists, the gentle shaking too much for his wounded body. The Elvenking caught the warrior and lowered him to the floor, sinking to his knees beside him.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Legolas had to know.   
  
Of course, deep in his heart, he did know. He just did not believe.   
  
He burst into his father's private rooms, nearly falling his face as he skid to a stop. "Ada," he said breathlessly, panic making its presence known in his voice.   
  
Thranduil looked up. The light had gone out of his eyes.   
  
Legolas swallowed. The look of an old, tired soul in front of him was enough to convince him of the truth. Still, he asked. He had to know. "Tell me its not true."  
  
Thranduil shook his head. "Oh, Legolas, ion nin," his voice broke, " that I cannot do."  
  
The young Elf nodded once, swallowing sudden tears as panic turned to deep grief. He turned on his heel, walking slowly out of Thranduil's rooms. "Legolas," the King called.   
  
His son looked back. "I will return, Ada. I promise," he said softly. "Not now."  
  
Thranduil nodded. His younger son had always turned inward when confronted with grief. As it was, Thranduil had neither the strength or the patience to try to turn him from his path. "Soon?"  
  
Legolas nodded. "Aye, Ada. Soon." With that, he left, seeking solace in the darkness.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The soft sound of tears being shed was perhaps the most painful sound to hear, especially when those tears were shed by someone loved well. The palace was quieter than ever heard before. The servants went about their tasks with a muteness that was unusual for most Elves. It wasn't strange to find tears resting on the cheeks of the servants or bright, wide, shocked eyes. More than once, one of them had stopped in the middle of some task, broken down with sobs that would not be quieted.   
  
Mener walked swiftly, trying to get where he was going in a great hurry but trying not to raise panic in an already wary and grieved household. He staggered a little; the healer's had been adamant about him resting, but he had a family to look after. He promised Taricir once.He found his quarry just exiting one of the smaller dens and Mener quickly grabbed the prince's upper arm and hauled him back into the room and into a far corner.   
  
"What now?" Legolas sounded weary beyond any sort of relief.  
  
"I am sorry, my lord, but there is a situation that demands attention." Mener said it hesitantly, as if afraid of the prince's reaction.   
  
"Mener," Legolas sighed, "I doubt you could bring me worse tidings than what I have already heard today." He paused, immediately contrite. Mener had been part of Taricir's patrol and he kept his grief and guilt close. "You served my brother well, mellon nin, and loyally. His fall is no fault of yours. I know Taricir would have been proud of your actions and touched by your care for Kirwen and Eldabeth."  
  
"It is of your niece I wish to speak." Mener sighed. "Kirwen does not wish to speak to King Thranduil."  
  
"So she sends you to bother me?"  
  
Mener sighed. "My lord, please, Eldabeth is gone."  
  
The panic that took hold in Legolas' countenance caused Mener a moment of his own bewildered fright.   
  
"Gone?"  
  
"Not gone," Mener quickly corrected. "Disappeared."   
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"If Kirwen or I knew," Mener snapped, "we wouldn't be telling you she had disappeared." It took Mener a moment to register he'd just spoken so to the now heir of Mirkwood, and he apologized quickly. Legolas waved the apology away, and Mener took the opportunity to speak again. "I know you are deeply grieved by the loss of your brother Taricir," he said, "and his wife grieves as well, but Kirwen's concern is doubled now that her daughter has wandered off."  
  
"No doubt caught in her own heartache."  
  
Mener nodded. "Kirwen has no desire to worry the king with this."  
  
Legolas laid a hand on the concerned elf's shoulder, mindful of the sling that kept Mener's arm immobile. He knew also that bandages decorated much of Mener's side. "Kirwen is right; I will search for Eldabeth. Go back to Kirwen. I'm sure my father would see her before too much time passes, but no one should be left alone long after such an event as this."  
  
Mener bowed and spun on his heel, wobbling a bit as he did so. Legolas steadied him. Rather than ask the warrior if he was all right -- no one was, not right now -- the prince nodded his thanks.   
  
"It is the least I can do," Mener said bitterly.  
  
Legolas sighed. "Mener, I meant it: Taracir's death was through no fault of yours. Kirwen does not hold you responsible, nor do I, and neither does Thranduil."  
  
Mener nodded. "My heart and my head are at odds with each other right now, my prince, and it is not your blame or the king's or even Kirwen's that worries me. It is Eldabeth that concerns me."  
  
"She is but a child."  
  
"She has a child's heart, one that is easily malleable. I would hate for her to hate her mother's cousin."  
  
"Mener, what did she say?"  
  
Mener sighed. "She blames me, I think. I had come to Kirwen to check on her -- she is my cousin and her husband was my commander -- and Eldabeth would take no quarter with me."  
  
Legolas nodded. "Mener, go. I will find her. You stay with Kirwen. Rest, too. I know you are more injured than you appear."  
  
Mener nodded, forgoing the usual formal pleasantries between commander and commanded. He spun, a little more gingerly this time, and quickly walked out of the room. Legolas sighed, watching him go. After a moment in which he did nothing but grieve, not for himself, but for Taricir's wife and daughter, he followed, exiting the palace, detouring to his rooms for his weapons.   
  
One could never be too careful.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TBC


	3. Part Two

Faith

by Kellen

Summary, disclaimers, and rating on on the prologue.

Author's notes: Please if you read it, review it. Thank you. Song used is by Three Doors Down. 

Part Two

"Not supposed to be scared of anything, 

But I don't know where I am.

I wish that I could move, but I'm exhausted

And nobody understands.

I'm trying hard to breathe now, 

But there's no air in my lungs.

There's no one here to talk to and 

The pain inside is making me numb.

I try to hold this under control.

They can't help me 'cause no one knows."

-Three Doors Down

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Given Legolas' propensity for making good time when he traveled, he found himself mildly amazed that Eldabeth eluded him at every turn. The most frustrating thing for him was that he knew she was close, yet she purposely avoided him. He tried to stamp down the frustration, telling himself it rose from a grief he had not had time to acknowledge and that Eldabeth herself had just lost her father. If she were anything like Legolas -- which he'd come to see was true from time to time, though he had no idea where it stemmed from -- she wanted to be alone and would resent any interuption. 

Legolas winced at the double standard, but he also knew Eldabeth could be in real danger, and that Kirwen needed her daughter.

Just as Thranduil needed his youngest son.

Another wince. He'd just left his father sitting there, mourning. 

Wonderful, he thought bitterly. Let's heap guilt on top of everything else. 

He lept lightly over a fallen log. "Eldabeth," he called softly, "I know you hear me." The only response was a soft rustle to his left. He turned. "Backtracking, tithen men? Please, come." He caught sight of a swatch of forest green cloth -- the color of Eldabeth's favorite cloak. Then, she was gone again. "Eldabeth," he called sharply, annoyance coloring his voice. 

Gone again. He sighed. Now he was going to have to find her to apologize to her. He'd been like this when his mother died: easily annoyed and prone to anger. He began to regret coming after Eldabeth. If Mener hadn't been injured, he might have gone back and gotten the warrior to corral Eldabeth. 

He paused, reaching out with the keen senses he'd been blessed with. In a matter of moments, he moved forward again. Eldabeth had apparently backtracked on her backtracking. He came to a break in the trees before he saw her. 

Tears sprang to his eyes. Panic started to wrap icy claws around his heart. "Eldabeth."

She turned, spearing him with a gaze that seemed almost dead. Her coppery hair had no life in it. She seemed dimmed, as if the natural glow that surrounded elves had been turned off. Even the sunlight avoided her. Gold thread in her cloak didn't catch the light. Eldabeth stood in front of a maw, a door into the earth, and the shadows enanated from it seemed to gather about her more solidly than the cloak that sat upon her shoulders. She shook her head and hesitated for a moment before drawing her cloak around her and abruptly striding into the cave. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Feeling weak and weary

Walking through this world alone.

Everything they say, every word of it,

Cuts me to the bone.

I've got something to say now 

But I've got nowhere to turn.

It feels like I've been buried 

Underneath the weight of the world.

I try to hold this under control.

They can't help me 'cause no one knows."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirwen stared blankly at Mener. Her hands were fisted and her eyes narrowed. "Step aside." Her tone was low, angry. As the wife of the lost heir, she held a place of authority in Mirkwood. At this moment, she was the very picture of such authority: her emerald eyes clear, her red-blonde hair neatly combed. Anyone, save for the King himself, knew to follow her orders, and her voice conveyed her confidence in this. That was the way of things. 

Mener, however, was both family and an Elf who adapted more readily to change than most of his counterparts. If the movement hadn't been hindered by injury, he would have crossed his arms. As it was, he settled for turned a glare on her worthy of Thranduil on his worst days. She did not flinch. "You are not, Kir."

"Move."

"No."

Kirwen drew herself up, matching his gaze with one of her own. Her generous mouth twisted into a sneer. "Please." The word was ground between clenched teeth. 

"You stay here."

For a moment, all was still. Kirwen and Mener did not even draw breath. Kirwen stared at her cousin in shock and feeling betrayed, while Mener held his breath, waiting for Kirwen's next move. 

She stepped forward and Mener braced himself. She was irrational right now; he was afraid she'd try to physically push past him, and he was in no shape to stop her. Still, he'd try. When Kirwen saw him tense, she stopped. Mener could see her trembling. 

"That is my daughter out there." 

"I know. Believe me, I know."

Kirwen's voice was turning shrill. "Her father just died."

Mener nodded.

"She is alone." 

At this Mener shook his head. "She is not. Legolas went after her."

Kirwen snorted. "He is in as much grief as she. Them coming home safely is not something I put my utmost faith in."

"Perhaps you should."

Kirwen was trembling. "Are you not grieved? You act as if this is just another day."

Mener bit the inside of his lip. The last thing he wanted to do was explode in anger at Kirwen. She was being difficult, yes, and Mener felt as if he were dying inside. Grief had a hold of him and seemed to never want to let up it's hold, but Kirwen was his immediate concern. Later, alone, he could grieve Taricir and cry for Kirwen and Eldabeth. Now, he wanted to be the pillar of strength for her to lean on. 

Except she didn't seem to want to lean against anything. 

"Are you, Kirwen?"

"Am I what?" she snapped.

"Grieved."

Her trembling increased, until she seemed a fragile reed fighting to remain rooted on a windswept day. Her hands clenched again and Mener could actually see a vein throb in her neck. It was her eyes, though, that frightened him. Green fire, they seemed. An anger and rage seemed to emanate from their emerald depths and Mener actually wondered if the Kirwen he knew -- the caring, soft spoken Elf he had grown up with -- would ever come back. 

She brushed past him, and Mener caught her arm as she went. "Kirwen, wait. I -"

"You have nothing more to say." She shook loose of his hold and swept out the door. Mener turned, catching himself on the door post as his balance swayed. He strode after her.

"I am not letting you out of my sight, cousin."

Kirwen whirled around, neatly combed hair becoming disarrayed. "Fine," she snapped. "Just quit speaking."

"Why?" Mener matched her tone, and he winced inwardly as he watched his words cut her. "Do my words hurt you? Where is your grief? Why do you hide behind anger, Kirwen? You need to stop. You will fade, Kirwen." Mener's voice broke, and he stared at the floor for a moment before looking up. Anger had drained away, replaced by a sorrow and fear he trembled with. "I already see you fading. What is it that angers you?"

"You do," was Kirwen's immediate response.

"No. Try again."

Kirwen trembled. "I go to speak to Thranduil. Do not stop me."

"Kirwen," Mener snapped. "What angers you?"

She yelled this time. "You do."

"I do not. What angers you?"

"You anger me. Taricir died saving you."

Mener closed his eyes, trying to let her words roll off him. Much as they stung him, he spoke again. "Who angers you, Kirwen?"

She trembled and turned away.

"You have never lied to me, cousin. We are like brother and sister."

Mener saw her shoulders shake and he knew she cried now. He came up behind her and rested his good hand on her shoulder. "Kirwen?"

She leaned into him and finally let him wrap his arm around her, as he wanted, needed, to do since her husband's death. 

"Taricir," she whispered brokenly, both hoping he didn't hear and needing him to hear. "He holds my anger and my grief." 

Mener kissed her forehead and let her cry. Later, he would go with her to Thranduil. Hopefully, by that time, Legolas will have brought Eldabeth back and maybe this family would have a chance to survive. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm blind and shaking

Bound and breaking

I hope I make it..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Legolas held his breath for a second before plunging into the cave just after Eldabeth. She was difficult to keep track of. Only the sound of her frantic running kept Legolas behind her. He called to her occasionally as she led them deeper into the network of tunnels and caves. It was only after the fourteenth or fifteenth time he'd either banged his head against an outcropping or fell to his knees after tripping over loose shale that exasperation took over and he yelled into the darkness "Eldabeth, stop." He scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees -- he'd fallen rather hard that time. "Can we talk about this in sunlight? Or at least stop moving?"

To his suprise, she answered. They kept moving, though. "Don't want to see sunlight."

"What about starlight?" was Legolas' response, as he tripped, yet again. He snarled in the dark. He was feeling so very un-Elflike at the moment. "It will be dark outside by the time we get out of here."

"Darkness is," came the reply. Legolas blinked, thinking he must have missed the last half of the sentence.

"Oh, Eldabeth," he sighed when it came to him that that is what she meant. That darkness was all around her, encompassing her, dwelling in her. At a complete loss for what to say, Legolas called to her. "It will be all right."

She stopped. Legolas nearly ran her over before he realized she was no longer in motion. They were deep inside the caves now; the only light was the natural glow of Elves and Eldabeth's was dim indeed. Even Legolas' light struggled against the darkness. She turned to face him, and even in the dimness, he could see her countenance pale. 

"How will it be all right?" Eldabeth cried, her voice breaking. "How, Legolas? How is this all right?" Tears flowed freely down her cheeks and the light around her that Legolas had seen dimming seemed to flare to life again as if in response to her anger. "My Ada is dead," she continued in a low voice, trying desparately to keep her emotions in check. A daughter of the heir -- former heir -- of Mirkwood was regal and Legolas could see that, despite the situation, she was scrambling for control. "My immortal father was struck down by an orc blade, I can see my Naneth fade and my uncle tells me things will be all right?" Her voice rose again. "When? When would that be?"

For a moment, Legolas could not answer her. He merely stared at her, covered in dirt, hair in disarray. Her hands were fisted, but it was her eyes that held his attention: They were the same shade as Taricir's had been and the fire that shown there brought tears to the prince's eyes. For a moment, he saw not Eldabeth, but Taricir. Taricir in the midst of battle, staring down his enemies. Taricir confronting Thranduil on some issue. For one moment, Legolas was with his brother again. "You are so like him," he whispered.

Eldabeth shook her head. "Please do not tell me that," she whispered brokenly, caught between anger and grief.

"Why, 'Beth?"

Eldabeth trembled from the force of emotion the truth brought. "Because he died."

Legolas closed his eyes briefly. He could feel the fear that drove her. He wanted nothing more than to disappear and grieve his own loss. He looked to Eldabeth. So lost, he thought. So young and so afraid. "You being like him," he said softly and firmly, "in no way foreshadows your future."

"But it does," she interupted almost hysterically. "His love for life, his fierceness, all that he was couldn't keep him here. Not even his family. We're supposed to be immortal. " Her voice broke again and she nearly yelled through her tears. "He was supposed to be here. With me. With Naneth. With you and with the king." She looked into Legolas' face, something she'd avoided since he caught her in the cave. "Why isn't he here?"

Legolas tried to hold her gaze but when his vision blurred through his as-yet unshed tears, he looked down. 

Why indeed? Eldabeth wasn't the only one asking the question. Legolas, who had experienced the death of friends before, railed against the fates himself, to the point of cursing them for Taricir's death.

Was this how it was supposed to be? Kirwen and Eldabeth left alone? Legolas to become heir? He doubted he could tell Eldabeth to have faith when he himself carried so little.

Eldabeth was crying openly now, leaning against the cold stone wall. Legolas wanted nothing more that to go to her and gather her in his arms, but he knew as soon as her tears fell on him, the barriers he'd built around his own sorrow would crumble and he would surely sob as hard as she. As it was, tears slipped down his cheeks. He watched her, torn and helpless. He hated being helpless. 

Eldabeth's knees gave way and she slid down the wall, coming to rest with her shoulder against the stone. One hand covered her face, the other clutched at the rock face. Legolas shook, then, damning himself to both his own and Eldabeth's pain, he knelt in front of her, reaching up to stroke her hair. As he had known they would, his own tears came. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Tears had dried slowly, and ragged breathing had gradually even out, but Eldabeth's trembling remained. Legolas had pulled her closer sometime during her sobbing and her temple rested on his shoulder. The young Elf, except for the shivering, was absolutely still and one might have thought her asleep. Several times, Legolas had started to speak to suggest they return home, but each time thought better of interupting the silence. 

Then, it was interupted for him. 

His head came up at the not too distant sounds. He narrowed his eyes trying to distinguish between the myriad shuffling and clattering sounds. He frowned. No Elf made that much noise, even if they tried, and this had a distinctly un-Elven feel to it. Eldabeth stiffened and pushed away from him to peer into the darkness back the way they'd come. Back toward the entrance. "What-"

He shushed her and went back to listening. They both heard the black speech, the gutteral yells. 

"Elbereth, please, not now," Legolas breathed as he stood up, a hand under Eldabeth's elbow drawing her upward as well. 

"How far?" Eldabeth asked, her voice betraying her weariness.

"I'd say the mouth of the cave."

Her jaw dropped. "How did they get so close? We should have -"

Despite the situation, Legolas found time for a weary smile. "I was a little preoccupied with comforting my niece."

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She stammered out an apology.

He shook his head. "Not needed, tithen men. For now, we move."

She nodded, but then stood there, staring past him. "Legolas, they are ever closer."

"I know."

"It's my fault."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"My fault we're here," she clarified.

Legolas grasped her arm and pulled her with him deeper into the cave. "Later I'll ask why you came in here. For now, let's go."

"Go where?" She stumbled; in this darkness, even Elves had a difficult time seeing. No light seemed to permeate the tunnel.

"In the opposite direction of them."

"But out is that way."

"More often than not, there is more than one entrance into a cave system."

"Do you know where it is?"

Silence was the answer.

"Oh," she whispered, her breath hitching. Hand still on her arm, lest they become seperated, Legolas led them on, quickly stumbling into the darkness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TBC


	4. Part Three

A/N: My apologies! RL caught up to me, and I found I really did not have the time to update. Hopefully after I move next week, I can get caught up again!

Part Three

"They haven't come back?"

Thranduil whirled on Kirwen, nearly snarling in her face. "No, Kirwen. Obviously not."

Mener, arm in sling and bandaged across his side, leaned against the wall in the corner, feeling as if the world were falling down around him. Whether that be attributed to dizziness from his injuries and his decided lack of rest or because he was in the same room with an enraged she-Elf and a grief-stricken Elvenking or both, he didn't know. All he did know was that he dearly wanted to sleep for days and wake up to find that everything that had happened since Taricir's death had been merely a nightmare. He dropped his gaze to the floor, finding little hope in things being right ever again. Kirwen snapped off another acerbic comment and Thranduil responded in kind. Mener didn't bother cataloging what was said anymore; their sniping had reached cataclysmic degrees and since both were possessed of a sharp wit, it only made their comments more barbed. Elbereth, didn't grief usually bring people together? Mener shook his head. One trait that every person in Thranduil's family -- even those married in like Kirwen -- possessed was willfullness. Mener had not taken time to mourn; his time had been taken by Kirwen and her sudden selfishness and rashness. He tried not to become angry with her, but at the moment, nothing seemed more inviting than a club to the back her red-blond head.

"If you had come to me in the first place," Thranduil started in a low, threatening tone.

"I was trying to spare you," Kirwen interupted.

Mener rolled his eyes heavenward. Now they argued over her trying to spare him pain. Mener, much as he wished his cousin would just stop, knew that her motives behind not telling Thranduil that Eldabeth had disappeared were pure. He decided he was moving to Imladris. Lord Elrond would surely welcome him. Yes, that was it. He was leaving Mirkwood. Starting over in a place where Elvenkings didn't yell and people didn't die and those he loved never changed. At that thought, he turned his gaze to Kirwen and had the other occupants in the room bothered to look, they would have seen sorrow there.

She had changed. Taricir's death had torn something deep inside her. Her quiet, gentle demeanor was gone, replaced with a harsh spirit. The Kirwen he knew seemed gone, with no hope to bring her back. 

Mener's sorrow was slowly draining away and hopelessness took its place. Had anyone bothered to notice, they would have seen his distress. As it was, they took no notice of his increasingly frantic breath and of his good hand clutching at the wall. Not until he fell forward, and it was the sound of his body hitting the tiled floor that finally drew their attention.

Kirwen stopped mid-comment, and both turned toward the sound. For a moment, Kirwen and Thranduil merely stared, slack-jawed before Thranduil rushed forward. "Call the healers."

Kirwen stood still, hand over her mouth.

"Kirwen, the healers," Thranduil snapped. "For the sake of the Valar, do not argue this."

The bite of the words brought tears to Kirwen's eyes, but she whirled and ran to the door. Thranduil could hear her shouting in the hallway. He turned his attention back to the fallen warrior. "Mener," he said softly, putting his hands on either side of the Elf's face. Thranduil winced. Mener's face was pale, his breath labored and shallow. Quietly, the Elvenking muttered apologies. "How did we miss this?" he muttered as he turned his gaze to the door. "I can hear them coming, Mener. They are not far now."

Eldabeth stumbled, trying to stop for a moment to right herself and Legolas nearly ran into her back. Rocks rolled under her feet and she lost her footing. She went down hard on her hands and knees, a startled gasp escaping and seeming to echo in the dark corridor. Sharp rocks pricked her hands and she nearly panicked. They could still hear the orcs behind, but had no way of telling if they were actually being pursued or not. Light started to creep up the corridor behind them. Legolas wrapped his hand around Eldabeth's arm and pulled her upright. He pushed her in front of him. "Go," he whispered urgently.

"I can't see where I'm going," she hissed back, throat closed and tears dangerously close to spilling onto her cheeks.

"Go anyway." Legolas risked a glance behind him. He could actually pick out the shadows of orcs in the fluttering torchlight. Muttering a quick supplication to every higher power he could think of, he stared forward again. "And go faster."

Eldabeth nodded, gamely trying to keep her tears at bay, and started forward. Legolas kept close behind her, pushing her to go faster. He, against his better judgement, kept glancing over his shoulder and found himself having to catch up to his niece every so often.

Eldabeth's foot caught a rock and she pitched forward. A startled half-shriek escaped and she scrambled for balance. Unfortunately, the fates weren't with her. She fell.

And stopped. Legolas wrapped his arm around her middle. "No more shrieking," he hissed, half-panicked at the thought that the orcs might have heard.

Eldabeth paid him no mind. Instead, in her half crouch, she peered into the darkness to her right.

"Legolas," she whispered.

Legolas pulled her upright and less than gently shoved her forward. She, displaying an agility more befitting an Elf than the stumbling around they'd been doing, turned and shoved him. "Uncle, look." She pointed to her right and slightly down.

He did, and breathed a sigh of semi-relief. "A side tunnel." Now that he could tell what he was looking at, he could see the opening. The maw was small, short enough they'd have to crouch to get through, but if they missed it, then the orcs surely would.

Of course, the orcs had torches.

Legolas smiled. The orcs had torches. He pushed Eldabeth, much more gently this time, into the crevice and followed. "See if it leads anywhere, but don't stray too far," he whispered.

Eldabeth narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"We need a torch."

She nodded first, but then the implication of the statement dawned on her. "Uncle, the only place I have seen a torch is in an orc's hand."

"Aye."

She grabbed his arm. "We don't need one that badly."

"We need to be able to see to get out of here."

"Our eyes are keen."

"Not keen enough in this darkness."

"Elves have light of their own."

Legolas sighed sadly. "Yours is dim, tithen men."

"As is yours," was her sharp reply.

He paused. "All the more reason for us to get out of here." He pulled free from her grasp. "Go, see if this leads anywhere. I will be behind you shortly." And hopefully not with a contingent of orcs on my heels, he thought.

With a sigh, Eldabeth hurried away.

Legolas turned back, waiting just inside the opening. By now the orcs were passing the opening. He blanched; they seemed neverending. He almost turned away. Eldabeth was right; they didn't need this. But he waited, waited until the flow of fell creatures trickled into nothing.

Or, almost nothing. Legolas stepped out of his hiding place, neatly sliding into place behind a straggler -- one with a torch; he did make sure of that -- and had the orc's throat slit before a sound could be made. Legolas grimaced at the black blood covering his hand and arm. Not that it making a sound would have necessarily been a bad thing. There was so much noise just in the pounding feet and the constant orc grumblings that one little dying scream might not have been noticed. Legolas pried the lit torch out of the orc's now-convulsing fingers and slipped back into the crevice, hurrying after Eldabeth, hoping against hope that she'd found a passage out. He was tired of the darkness.

A sharp whistle cut through the inky blackness and it seemed the shadows jumped as flames on torches held high shifted as their holders did. When the leader -- only so because he'd proven himself fiercer and meaner than his counterparts, usually through their death -- came back to the place the whistle originated, he grinned, showing a mouthful of blackened fangs. His subordinate, the one who'd found the slain orc, grinned back and motioned to the crevice in the side of the rock wall. The leader laughed outright. He knew where that passage led. How perfect. "Shall we hunt, boys?"

Echoes of their laughter and shouts permeated the darkness.

"Hello Bronwe."

The big mare tried to wheel around at the sound of the soft voice, but only succeeded in letting her right front leg buckle underneath her. She went down to her knee, whinnying in protest, and scrambled back to her feet, her injured hoof held above the ground. The mare craned her neck, spearing Mener with her gaze. Her dark eyes were full of pain, and -- did Mener imagine this? -- regret.

Mener carefully came forward. The mare was loose, not because the Elves wouldn't treat her or because the stablemaster refused to keep an eye on her, but because she refused the attention. Her master was gone, and Bronwe was lost. Mener sighed. Sounded like a lot of people he knew.

"You shouldn't strain an already strained leg, Bronwe," he said quietly. "And I know that if you'd just let them, that could be healed in a few days' time. It's not that serious."

Bronwe snorted and danced away.

"I know," Mener said again. "They -- the healers, the king and Kirwen -- told me to rest. Like I would be able to just forget everything and sleep. Like you would be able to just forget everything and be normal again. They told me I lost too much blood to be up and around." Here he stared at the ground. "Lost blood, did I?" he said bitterly. "I did not lose life, like some."

Bronwe shook herself and came to stand beside a tree. She craned her neck, scratching herself against the bark. Moonlight streamed through the branches, highlighting her dark coat. For a few moments, she seemed perfect, untouched by cruelty or death. Instead, Bronwe was a god's horse, sporting a coat with a sheen like oil. Dark intelligent eyes caught the light and Mener could see her staring at him.

"I can't make it right, Bronwe." The words were choked and Mener covered his face with his good hand as he sank to the ground. On his knees in the grass, Mener only closed his eyes and ground out, "I should have been the one to die. Me, Bronwe. It should have been me."

Bronwe watched him; she knew him, of course. Knew him as the friend of her master. She was familiar with him, almost as familiar with him as she had been Taricir. Grief permeated her home, her very being, and, despite what opinion Men might have about her intelligence, she knew why. The one person she'd known since she could barely stand was gone, and she'd watched him fall.

As had Mener.

The Elf shook violently, hand still pressed against his face. Warrior though she may be, Bronwe was also a creature sensitive to others, as were many of her fellows. She limped, dispelling the image of perfection with her hobble, toward Mener.

It wasn't until Mener felt his hair being pulled that he realized Bronwe had come over. Slowly, he looked up, coming nose to nose with the big mare. Bronwe pushed against his forehead with her soft muzzle and snorted into his hair. Mener nodded, acknowledging her care, and wrapped his hand around her nose, gently scratching underneath her eye.

It wasn't until much later that Mener was able to stand up. Downtrodden by grief and injury, he leaned upon Bronwe almost as much as she upon him as they made their way to the stables. Mener treated her leg, laying a poultice upon her much abused knee, and throughout the night, he kneaded the muscles in her leg and shoulder. When the sun's morning ray's filtered through the stable's open windows, Bronwe stood, flexing her knee and alternately snorting at Mener and grabbing his hair.

When he left for a few moments, Bronwe waited. With her master gone, none commanded her and she was as lost as the rest of the Taricir's family. It was only when Mener came back, countenance set in determined lines that she knew some purpose might be restored here and now. With a hand on her brow, Mener asked "Can you carry me?"

Bronwe neighed softly and pawed the ground with the once-useless hoof. 

Mener nodded and patted her neck before leaping, rather less gracefully that usual for him, onto her back. "Legolas and Eldabeth have not yet returned," he told the mare, more to confirm to himself what he was actually doing. This was a fool's errand, he knew, for an injured Elf, but he had obligations. "I made promises, Bronwe, and while I may not have been able to set things right, I can still try to make certain Kirwen has some family left."

Legolas met Eldabeth in the small passageway as she came back toward him. "It opens into nothing but a cavern, just a big room at the end."

"Are you sure?"

Eldabeth grimaced. "Not without light, no I am not sure, but it is not that big a place. I did circle it before coming back."

Legolas nodded. "We'll scout it," he said, raising the torch a little. "Lead the way."

Eldabeth huffed before turned back around. Legolas followed her, more than a little relieved when the passageway opened up abrubtly into the cavern Eldabeth talked about. He turned, holding the torch high. "Dwarves would love this place," he commented.

"Aside from the orcs," was Eldabeth's acerbic response. "Still," she acknowledged, "they would." She eyed the formations of stone. "Look there," she pointed to her left. "It looks like stars."

Legolas turned. It did indeed look like stars set in the stone. "Small deposits of mithril," he said. He swiveled his gaze upward. "Oh, my...Eldabeth, look up."

The youth did, and her breath caught in her throat. "Incredible," she breathed. "I feel as if I am standing outside, watching the stars."

Legolas nodded. The roof of the cavern sparkled in the light from the torch. The mithril deposits did indeed shine like the stars outside, and the blackness of the cave only seemed to reinforce that idea.

The thought occurred to Legolas that he should actually tear his gaze away from the star-like spattering of mithril and scout the cavern, but before he could actually do it, a gutteral yell echoed in the passageway behind them. Legolas turned in time to see an orc charge through, wicked sword held in front of him.

Acting purely on instinct, the prince whirled out of the way of the oncoming blade and slashed with the knife still in his hand. Another foul creature spilled out of the passage behind the first and Legolas hit him with the torch and shoved him back into the narrow corridor. He met with resistance, and knew without a doubt that the passage was lined with orcs.

He back away, and handed the torch to Eldabeth. "Find a way out," he snapped.

She nodded and whirled, and Legolas thanked the Valar she was keeping her head. The last thing he needed was screaming adolescent amidst an orc attack. He set back to the task at hand; that of keeping the orcs out of the cavern. At least they were only coming through one at a time. He parried an attack and came in high, punching the creature in the throat. When it backed off, he freed his knife and slashed at it and turned to meet the next one. One at a time it may be, but still quickly.

"Eldabeth!" he called.

"Still looking!" She held the torch high, frantically searching and in her haste, hoping she wasn't missing anything. When her fire failed to light a dark spot above her head on the far wall, she nearly missed it. Casting a look into the darkness, behind her, she could barely make out Legolas still fighting. Sending a prayer that he might have strength a little longer, she ran toward the hole. When she reached it, she jumped, catching the lip of the ledge with her right hand. She swung her left hand up and held the torch up as she pulled herself up to look into it. "Can't see," she whispered. Eldabeth dropped to the ground, grabbed a rock and threw it into the hole, listening intently and could barely hear it land and roll above the sounds of fighting. "Well, that didn't tell me much," she hissed.

She jumped up again, and before she could pull herself up to look, a hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her up. She looked up, fear plainly written on her face. "What does it tell you now?"

Eldabeth whimpered a little as the orc pulled her closer, but at the same time swung her left hand. The orc dropped her wrist as the flames licked at his face and Eldabeth fell backward, knocking her head against the rough-hewn floor. She lay for a moment, trying to catch her breath until the orc she'd burned fell next to her. She scrambled up. "Legolas! There's more!" she called as she ran back to his side.

The prince looked in her direction, saw more orcs spilling into the cavern from the hole she'd found and promptly swore.

TBC

I hope you enjoy!


	5. Part Four

_Ok, my way of apologizing for taking so long... two chapters..._

_Faith Part 4_

Three minutes ago, Eldabeth had felt hope seep into her being. Three minutes ago, she actually believed they would survive, and that, even with her adar dead, there was a hope for life. Just a few moments ago, she dearly wanted to see her mother, and her grandfather, and Mener and be with them, to feel their love and sorrow. To offer her strength and to be relieved of her burden.

She snorted, and clubbed another orc with the torch. She eyed it for a moment, knowing that if she kept hitting the foul creatures with it, she'd eventually snuff the flame. Of course, now that the orcs were charging into the cavern, they brought with them more light.

She was a warrior by no means. As a granddaughter of the king, she was schooled in the ways of the courts, and diplomacy, along with a smattering of the healing arts. She was fascinated with healing, and had learned all she could about the way the body worked, and how it reacted to trauma. She put the knowledge to use now, as best she could, and tried to hit her adversaries in places that would immediately render them unable to fight.

Unfortunately, she was also slight, of lesser strength, and did not possess what one would call a good aim.

The torch bounced off the forearm of one of the orcs, and it stopped, looking first to its slightly bruised arm and then back to her. When it cocked its head, laughing at her attempt to stop it, she punched it in the nose. Blood spurted and knuckles were bruised, but it gave Eldabeth all the distraction she needed to ruthlessly beat the creature over the head with the torch.

She was stopped mid-swing as she was pulled backward by her hair. She shrieked, fear and rage echoing through the cavern, and tried to whirl around to meet her enemy face to face. She only succeeded in pulling her own hair. Pain shot through her scalp and tears blurred her vision. Panic overtook her and she flailed wildly, shrieking all the while.

Legolas turned. He'd been trying to keep on an eye on Eldabeth and trying to find a way out of this mess all the while fighting creatures intent on killing him mercilessly. That, on top of the emotional mess he'd already been in before this all started, was making for some severe misjudgements.

Why he and Eldabeth hadn't just slipped out and backtracked after the orcs passed... well, he just hadn't been thinking clearly.

Sending them into a room with no way out that wasn't blocked by orcs... again, hadn't been thinking clearly.

He lunged forward, stabbing an orc that came too close. He was no longer going to them, but letting them come to him. No sense in wasting energy when they'd all get their chance soon enough.

And, now, he'd let his niece out of his sight for one moment and she was in trouble. Of course, he couldn't really fault her for it; they were in a cavern infested by orcs. One had no choice but to be in trouble.

He dispatched an orc in his way, and, more on his heels, ran to Eldabeth's aid. He ducked under one of her flailing, panicked swings and buried his longknife in the creature's side. It let go of her, and she, too panicked to note Legolas coming to rescue her, immediately turned, already swinging the torch in both hands.

She knocked Legolas directly between the shoulderblades before she could check herself. He stumbled forward, fell to one knee beside the orc he'd just stabbed while Eldabeth dropped the torch, horrified and stammering apologies.

Legolas shook his head and stood up, thrusting his knife in her hands as he picked up the sword of the dying orc. "As long as," here he paused to behead an orc coming up to them, "you don't stab me, use that."

Eldabeth blanched as the headless body fell between them. "Can we get out of here now?"

"Turn and stab," Legolas said. She did, for once quickly dispatching the creature. She stood stock still as it gurgled its last breath at her. She moaned, and looked over her shoulder at Legolas.

"Please can we go now?" 

"I'm working it," he snapped. He swung the sword in a wide arc, cleaving through two orcs. "That hole you found the orcs in? Head that way."

Bronwe surged forward, pounding up the grade, deftly avoiding obstacles with a grace befitting her status as a warrior. Mener hunched over her neck, mindful of her right shoulder and knee. He kept his hand on the right side of her withers. As one, they wove through the forest and Mener almost mourned the fact they would have to stop soon and start seriously tracking Eldabeth and Legolas.

He hoped they were at least together. To think that Eldabeth might be alone in her grief scored Mener's already torn heart. He fervently hoped they only delayed coming back because either Eldabeth or Legolas had been unable to come home yet, their grief was so great. Mener blinked back tears and did his best to set guilt aside. To fervently hope someone was debilitated by grief was anathema to him. It was wrong beyond his ability to explain.

Mener was so deep in his thoughts that Bronwe nearly unseated him when she stopped short.

He scrambled for balance, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "Bronwe?"

Then, Mener felt it. A wrongness, a darkness, permeated even the early morning sun.

The trees trembled, leaves shaking in the slight breeze.

Bronwe circled, and Mener peered into the trees. He raised his sword.

Mener's eyes went wide and he pulled at Bronwe's dark mane. "Back up, Bronwe."

Bronwe snorted, shaking her head and pawing the ground in obvious displeasure. She was a warrior; she did not run.

"Bronwe," Mener snapped. His hand tightened in her mane. "We are both injured," he whispered fiercely. "Not at our top form. We must leave."

Bronwe took a step back. She threw her head high, ready to wheel.

The silence was broken by the soft sound of a bowstring being strained. Mener gasped. "Go," he snapped.

The bowstring was released.

Bronwe wheeled.

A black-fletched arrow flew within inches of the mare's neck. She snorted, and with a powerful surge, she carried Mener into the trees, back the way they'd came.

Reaching the wall underneath the ledge Eldabeth's discovery was on was not the problem. Finding time to actually scale the wall became the issue.

"Why aren't we," Eldabeth grunted as she struggled to pull the knife free of an orc abdomen, "going out the way we came?"

"Too many coming that way," Legolas said, looking up. If he reached above his head, his fingertips would be able to brush the ledge. "We need to do this quickly. I'm going to drop my sword and give you a leg up."

"What? No." She shook her head. "You'll get yourself killed."

Legolas eyed her. "We're going to die anyway."

She sighed, and drew up her skirts, ready to move. Legolas stabbed an orc, pulled the sword back and let it clatter to the ground near his feet. He cupped his hands and Eldabeth moved, setting her foot in his hands and reaching upward. She pulled herself onto the ledge and Legolas ducked under a fierce swing.

Eldabeth spun around, stretching out to help her uncle and stopped suddenly, staring at her empty hand. The knife! She'd dropped the knife. Quickly she picked up a rock, and, using both hands, started pelting their tormentors with small, sharp rocks. 

Legolas quickly joined her. Wordlessly, he handed her the knife. She winced.

"Now we run?"

He nodded.Then, snarling, he thrust the sword backward, catching an orc in the throat that dared try to follow them. As he pulled the sword free, he flashed a reassuring look to Eldabeth, but it failed in its purpose when small rocks clattered down from the roof and the cavern shook. He closed his eyes. Both Elves stayed absolutely still for a moment before Legolas pushed Eldabeth forward. "Move."

It was all he had time to say before their world crashed down upon them.

TBC


	6. Part Five

Faith

Part Six

by Kellen

Disclaimers and all that are on the prologue.

The cave-in was small, just enough to completely block the passageway and litter the floor with rocks. Only a few were big enough to cause much damage when they came down, but those came down directly into the path of the Elves fleeing the orcs.

Eldabeth fell, unsure if she tripped or was pushed, but either way, it saved her. A cascade of rock crashed down in front of her, cutting off her escape. She put up her hands and tried to roll away from the fall, finding nothing but more rock. She came to her knees, panicked and choking on the dirt in the air, and bumped into her uncle.

Legolas wrapped his arm around her shoulders and guided her to the side of the passageway, hoping for some protection from the rock. They crouched there, unable to go forward or back, trapped by rock on all sides, and waited and prayed.

The sound was deafening, but, contrary to what the elves might have thought, it didn't last all that long. Before long, all that seemed to exist was the soft sound of small stones rolling into their resting places. For a long while, silence reigned in the caverns. Not even the sounds of orcs permeated the walls.

Then, when it seemed the last pebble had stopped rolling, someone moved.

Eldabeth choked on her own breath, gagging on the dirt-clogged air. Small sharp stones rolled off her back and out of her hair as she straightened, her hand on her uncle's shoulder. It was when he rolled limply out of her grasp that she realized something was wrong. Gently, she lowered him to the ground and worriedly gazed into his face. "Uncle?" Sudden panic threatened to overwhelm her as thoughts of how her adar had died rose. Tears welled and spilled onto her cheeks, leaving muddy tracks in her dirt covered face.

"Please be all right," Eldabeth implored quietly as she cradled Legolas' head in her hands. She bit her lip as her fingers became slick with blood. "Please come back to me." She peered into his face, willing his eyes to open. When it was obvious that imploring him to wake up wasn't going to work, she switched tacts. "Legolas, if you don't wake up right now, I will, Valar as my witnesses, leave you here for the orcs. Do you understand?" After a moment, she was quite certain that threats weren't going to work, either. She turned to violence. "Wake up, you bloody overgrown dwarf," she hissed and shook him.

That worked. Legolas' lips moved and Eldabeth bent closer. "Was that a troll?" the elder elf gasped.

Eldabeth shook her head, smiling in relief. " 'Twas a rock, uncle."

"Just one?"

"Most assuredly not," she commented, looking around at the rocky debris. She helped him sit up and watched him carefully as he blinked a few times, obviously trying to make the world quit spinning.

"Did you call me a dwarf?"

"You must be imagining things." Eldabeth prodded at the cut on his temple, then moved to the one behind his ear. "You took some hard hits."

"I'm fine." He brushed off her hands and looked around. As his gaze lighted on the new rock walls, he swallowed. "Well, the orcs won't be in here anytime soon."

There was a ringing thud from the other side of the rock pile behind them. Gleeful shouts in the black tongue reached their ears, and both winced.

"Never mind."

"It does slow them down," Eldabeth offered, still staring and suddenly willing for another cave-in, this time on the orcs instead of the Elves.

Legolas nodded. He bit his lip, staring at the wall the orcs were trying to get through before turning to the other mass of rocks in front of them. Wordlessly, he started digging. Eldabeth picked up his knife and the sword he'd commandeered and joined him after laying them down within easy reach.

For a few moments, the only sounds were of frantic digging. Suddenly, Legolas stopped and turned a dark stare on Eldabeth. She continued her actions for only a moment before slowly turning to him, trepidation written plainly on her face.

"What in the deepest, darkest depths of Moria were you thinking running into a cave?" he snapped. "Of all things, a cave. Eldabeth!"

"I know, I know," she breathed, holding up her hands. "A cave."

"Yes! A cave!" He pinned her with a glare he'd probably picked up from Thranduil on the king's darkest days. "Were you trying to send us to Mandos yourself?"

"No, I think the orcs'll do that just fine," she muttered.

"Eldabeth!"

"Uncle!" she snapped back.

They stared at each other until Eldabeth relented, looking down to the ground. "Dig," Legolas snapped.

She did, scooting a little further away from her irate uncle and continued shoving rocks out of her way even as her vision blurred through the tears. She wiped them away on the back of her hand before she realized just how futile the move was -- they could barely see anyway. She snuck a look at Legolas; he was digging angrily, barely making a dent in the pile. Everytime he moved a rock, his own jerky, angry movements caused a small landslide and covered up the progress he'd made.   
  
Legolas stopped, staring at the mess in front of him. This wasn't working, and Eldabeth's sniffling, quiet sobs weren't helping. He almost snapped at her again before reeling his emotion in; it wouldn't help. It truly wouldn't help. If they had to die, they should at least die as friends, so that they would actually be able to stand each other when they met in Mandos' Halls. He sighed. "Eldabeth."

She drew in a wavery breath and immediately started apologizing. "Uncle, I'm sorry, so sorry, I was just running and I knew I didn't want to see the stars because they reminded me of ada and naneth was mad and Mener was there and all could think about was ada died saving Mener and I couldn't speak to him and then I felt so terrible because I know he knew its because I blamed him and then I felt like I didn't deserve to see the stars and ..." here she finally drew breath, "I'm so incredibly sorry." The breathless speech ended on a sob.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. He knew the child's hurt ran deep and her emotions were unpredictable -- he felt the same way -- but this small speech broke his already bruised and battered heart. "Eldabeth," he said softly, "you always deserve the stars' light." He came closer to her and raised his hand, not quite resting it on her shoulder. "Always."

"Truly?" The word was nearly lost in sniffles.

"Truly." And Legolas was always swear it was the dirt in his eyes and the pain in his head that contributed to the tears on his cheeks.

Curses in black speech arose, and they both winced again. More digging noise was heard.

"I think perhaps we should dig again?"

Legolas nodded. "Wise idea, indeed, Lady."

And so, they dug.

* * *

Mener pushed Bronwe to her limits and they ran for the gates of Thranduil's palace. Bronwe, despite her earlier defiance, accepted Mener's handling gracefully and proudly gave every ounce of speed she possessed as they thundered through the forest. Trees seemed to move their roots out of the wood elf's way and closed the path behind them, just in case anything foul sensed the elf's purpose and moved to stop them.

Bronwe hit her stride early, and ran flat out, pounding against the ground. Even normally, this would have been a trying speed for her to keep up, and with every stride, her right leg weakened. Mener sensed the weakness, and did his best to lend her strength, but did not slow her. He knew this was of utmost importance and that Bronwe would never willingly surrender to a slower pace. She hated the foul creatures as much as he, and he knew that she understood Taricir's family was in danger. She had been there when Mener had tracked Legolas and Eldabeth and the orcs to the cave; had been there was Mener paled and whispered prayers and had been more than willing when Mener bid her run home for help.

And, so, it was not entirely unexpected when Bronwe's step faltered. Mener tried to bid her stop, but she refused and pushed further. Her leg folded underneath her and she pitched forward. Mener rolled from her back, landing hard since he only had one arm able to take his weight, but on the whole, all right. Bronwe scrambled upward, pitched forward a few steps and stopped, sides heaving and standing on three legs.

Mener stood still for a moment, gathering his thoughts and catching his breath. "We are not far, Bronwe. Close enough that we may happen upon an elf gathering herbs or out for a walk. Try not to worry." Bronwe snorted; Mener grimaced. Yes, try not to worry. How sage. "Come Bronwe. We walk." He shook his head. "Slowly."

TBC


	7. Part Six

A/N: My apologies (boy, I bet anyone still reading this is sick of apologies). I have been moving. Joyous… I do still want to reiterate that this is indeed a complete story. All chapters are written. I will not leave you hanging, and now that I have moved and now have internet access at home, this should go much smoother. Thanks for patient with me, mellyn nin!

Part Seven

by Kellen

Legolas dug frantically, peripherally aware of Eldabeth moving rocks away beside him. He knew, had they been able to see a little more clearly, that blood would smear most of the rocks. He winced as rough rock tore into his already battered fingers, and hissed. He shoved at a particularly big boulder, nearly pounding it in frustration when it refused to budge. He picked up his knife, trying to use it as leverage against the rock. He pulled and his blood-slickened fingers slipped. He fell sideways, bumping Eldabeth. A startled gasp escaped the younger Elf as she scrambled for balance.

Legolas apologized and steadied them both. A lock of Eldabeth's coppery hair fell into her face, and she blew it away. Dirt coated her face and hands, and her hair seemed dull, lifeless and beyond dirty. The tear tracks on her cheeks left her with a look that spoke of great grief and hardship. Legolas barely refrained from snorting; that wasn't far off, and he doubted he looked much better. In fact, he probably looked worse, given the blood that was caked on the side of his head.

"Need help?" she asked.

"Trying to move this rock."

She nodded, pressing her lips together, and bent to help him.

They tried their best to block out the sounds of digging behind them. One did not have to listen for very long to come to the conclusion that the orcs were digging much more effectively than the Elves. Before long, though, the sounds behind them wore on their already worn defenses.

"Thank the Valar for small mercies," Eldabeth snarled. "The cave in didn't kill us."

Legolas bit back a sigh; he was extremely irritated with Eldabeth's unpredictable emotion.

"They left us for the orcs," she continued, heedless of Legolas' growing frustration. "The rocks should have either killed them or us, and the way things are happening, I'd rather it be us."

That was too much. Legolas caught her wrist, and pulled her around so that she faced him. "If you wish death on youself, so be it," he snapped, "but my life or death is my own decision."

Eldabeth actually snarled at her uncle. "Do you see a way out?"

"Have a little faith, Beth!"

"Oh, have faith." She laughed a mocking, nearly mad laugh. "Faith. Faith in what? The Valar that allowed my father to die and us to be trapped here waiting for them to have at us? In Iluvatar, who, for all I know, planned all this? In you? In me?" She raised her voice. "Perhaps a miracle will come and we will be rescued from the verge of death." She raised her gaze upward, and continued in a mockery of prayer. "Oh, Valar, oh Iluvatar, sweet Eru, we await your mercies! Rain them down upon us!" She pulled her wrist out of Legolas' grasp. "Maybe another cave in will kill us this time," she spat.

Legolas' hands fisted and his countenance hardened. "You go too far."

"Where should I have stopped, then?"

"Before you ran into this damned place." His eyes flashed, and even as angered as she was,

Eldabeth shrank back from him. "What was your purpose, youngling? Were you too afraid to fade away in peace, that you had to have someone else do you the favor of killing you? You knew the dangers inherent in running, in coming in this place in times as dark as these. You knew, and yet you heeded it not. Reckless, Eldabeth. Too reckless by far when you involve others in your games."

"This is not a game," she shouted.

"Is it not? You deny nothing else, neice." He lowered his voice, abruptly realizing he was nearly shouting. "Fade away, leave us for Mandos' Halls if you will, but do not take us all with you, you selfish fool."

"Selfish?" she nearly shrieked, choking on her own outrage. "I drown in my grief, and yet I've seen nothing from you."

Legolas raised a fist before forcing himself to put his hand back on his knee, appalled at his inclination to hit the child. "Nothing? Have you not looked, Beth? I've been so busy keeping you alive to bring you back to your mother so that she may have some peace that I've not the time to allow myself to even think of my brother." He paused. "Or do you forget that Taricir was not only your father, but also a son, a brother, a husband and a friend?"

Her breathing hitched and she made no answer.

"Stop digging then, and resign yourself to your so-called fate. I will not resign hope yet," he snapped quietly before turning back to his task.

The sounds of black speech and frenzied digging grew ever closer. Eldabeth leaned against the wall and closed her eyes against her tears while Legolas continued his near hopeless rail against fate.

* * *

Thranduil almost had to physically reign in Kirwen. She was so intent on rescuing her daughter and brother-in-law that she constantly usurped the Elvenking in front of his advisors and warriors, and Thranduil only tolerated it for two reasons. She was not herself -- vaguely, he wondered if she would ever return to the graceful, quiet Elf he first knew -- and his warriors and advisors didn't make a single move until he confirmed or denied her order. Unfortunately, he had yet to be able to deny an order; they had all made sense thus far, and he found himself moving to obey Kirwen more than once before checking himself.

It was when Mener moved to with them that Kirwen and Thranduil reached their first disagreement.

"Mener, stay," Thranduil ordered wearily when the dark haired Elf appeared in the contingent, sword at his side.

"My lord," Kirwen interupted, "he can show us the way."

"He has described it well enough," Thranduil responded, "and several here know of which cave he speaks."

"I'd rather not take the chance we end up going the wrong way entirely," Kirwen replied, an edge to her voice.

"He is injured, and needs tended."

"It can wait."

Thranduil turned to her and spoke in a low enough voice that, hopefully, only she would hear him. "Keep this up, and you will be residing in the darkest, deepest places below the palace with only the insects and the rats to keep you company."

She stared at him, her green eyes filled with rage before abruptly turning and waiting near the young mare that was her mount.

Thranduil held back a sigh; this was tearing his small family to peices. He turned to Mener. "Stay, warrior. Your bravery is commended; now let us pick up the effort."

Mener, even circumspectly related to the king, had never dared say anything that could possibly be construed as argumentative. Now, though, when he spoke, he defied a direct order. "I would go with you, my Lord." He swallowed, letting his gaze slide to Kirwen. "If only to keep an eye on my cousin Kirwen." He lowered his voice. "She concerns me; I would not let her away from my sight."

"Or your protection." Thranduil sighed. "I do understand, Mener, and I do relent, this time. Question my authority again, though, and you will never have the opportunity to do so again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Thranduil turned, ordering his warriors out, wondering darkly just who actually ruled Mirkwood. Your fault, Taricir, he thought, his heart constricting. Had you not left us, we would still be whole. He eyed Mener, arm still bound in its sling, as he sidled his mount next to Kirwen. He watched Kirwen's proud, haughty, but ultimately pained demeanor. One son dead, the other, missing, presumably in a cave that was also full of foul creatures. A young granddaughter so full of heartache that she sought solace and found nothing but more pain and more fighting.

Presumably.

Thranduil held onto that word. Presumed. It was all presumed that Legolas and Eldabeth ran into trouble, but the truth was that Thranduil had a terrible feeling, a horrible sense that no matter how many "presumably"s were tacked onto the situation, it was still true.

Legolas promised his ada that he'd be back soon. He did not make promises lightly, and it was the faith in his son's character that kept Thranduil from drowning in all that was wrong right now.

"Garo bronwe," Thranduil whispered, willing Kirwen and Mener to hear. "Lasto beth nin, Kirwen.

Garo bronwe."

Have faith.

Now he just needed to grasp faith, and hold it close, no matter how fate railed at them.

He patted his stallion's dark neck and, to direct his attention elsewhere before he drove himself mad, started looking into the forest, letting the sympathies and the hope of the trees fall upon him. He smiled at the form he saw running somewhat akwardly beside the contingent, and wished the dark horse strength and luck.

Bronwe followed.

TBC


	8. Part Seven

_Faith_

_Part 8 of 10_

_Disclaimers, summary, and rating on on the first part._

Eldabeth sat, arms curled around her knees, and trembled with the effort of holding in her sobs. The darkness around them had seemed to grow since she and Legolas fought and it was heavy in the small passageway. Legolas stood now, working near the top of the rockfall, but the sounds of his work was drowned by the sounds of the orcs still coming after them. Eldabeth had no idea how close they were to breaking through, but from the sounds of dark glee, it would be soon.

Her trembled redoubled as fear flowed through her being. Grief and fear fought for control, and she had no resources to deal with the onset of fresh emotion. She choked on a harsh sob and her hands clenched around her knees as she fought for breath.

Legolas stopped his work, hands still upraised as he turned his gaze toward his niece. Empathy flitted across his stern features and he dropped to a crouch in front of her. He started to speak, but stopped, unsure of what to even say. His gaze flitted to the rocks which now trembled with the onslaught of orc force applied to it. Eldabeth started at the noise and movement and blindly reached for Legolas' hand. He took her hand and her fingers curled around his with a crushing force. "I'm sorry; I don't want to go," she whispered, her voice harsh and uneven.

"Then do not," Legolas responded evenly even as his heart clenched.

More rocks rolled. Big ones. Legolas glanced at them nervously. The points of orcish blades could be seen now and again, prying at the rock.

Eldabeth never turned her gaze upward. Great hitching breaths shook her slight frame and Legolas tried to still her by laying a hand on her back.

The points of blades were replaced by dark clawed hands. Gleeful black speech reached their ears, but they paid no attention to it. For the first time since they'd encountered the foul creatures, they paid them no mind. The elves' world was here and now, consumed in each other's heartache. "Garo bronwe," Legolas said.

"I don't know how," Eldabeth answered.

"Just claim it."

Laughter reached their ears and more rocks fell, some coming to rest against their legs. Legolas picked up knife and sword, leaned forward and kissed Eldabeth's forehead. "Go, dig," he whispered. "We will soon be free."

Eldabeth nodded. She stood up and went to work where Legolas had been digging.

Hands stinging, head reeling, he steadied himself and waited.

The first orc broke through.

* * *

Thranduil never once thought that, as King of Mirkwood, he would be picking his way carefully through roughened stone and strewn rock in the darkness with an anxious and irritable she-Elf beside him and an injured warrior behind him. Kirwen carried the torch -- she would not be left outside with the horses -- while Mener had a sword firmly grasped in his good hand. Thranduil himself had his longknife still sheathed, while behind them, the contigent of fifteen quietly searched the cave.

Kirwen suddenly let out a cry and rushed forward, Mener and Thranduil on her heels. She stopped short, her cloak swirling around her legs and her skirts brushing the stiffening body of a dead orc. Thranduil took the torch from her still hands and examined the body. "The throat is slit," he announced.

"He could have had a disagreement with his leader, my Lord," Mener commented.

Thranduil shook his head. "Too clean. Orcs rarely kill this cleanly."

"Look." Kirwen pointed to an opening in the rock wall, where black blood was smeared.

"No, listen," Thranduil corrected. "Do you hear it?"

Mener closed his eyes, swallowing around a lump that had risen in his throat. "Gleeful orcs are a bad sign."

Thranduil handed the torch back to Kirwen and drew his knife. "If you intend to follow, stay with them," he told Kirwen, pointing to the warriors. "Engage them," he commanded. "My son and granddaughter are here somewhere and any goblin alive is a threat to them."

They ducked into the passageway, eager to cut gleeful shouts short.

* * *

Eldabeth dug frantically. With Legolas using both weapons to give her room, her only mode of defense was to throw the rocks. Unfortunately, her aim needed work. More often she missed than not, but the small projectiles did distract the orcs that had widened and now poured through the hole. Eldabeth's eyes widened as she shoved rocks out of her way -- she smelled air. "Elbereth, please," she breathed, her frantic movements becoming faster. Rocks scraped her hands, but she paid it no heed and finally, when she moved a few rocks, a shaft of dim sunlight illuminated her face.

With a hoot of triumph, Eldabeth turned, letting the little sunlight into the cave, and threw the rock that had covered the small hole. It struck an orc between the eyes and Eldabeth let out another cry. The orc faltered, glaring at her. Legolas cut it down.

He kept moving, never stopping, but hardly able to make a kill in the small space suddenly filled with milling bodies, every one intent on killing him. He placed himself between Eldabeth and the orcs, and joined her in her yell when sunlight streamed down upon him.

He whirled, ducking, then coming up with both blades. Two more orcs fell at his feet.

Eldabeth turned to dig. She could barely fit both hands into the hole, but she shoved at the rocks anyway, steadily widening the entrance. It didn't have to be big; both Elves were slight. With a mighty shove, a boulder gave way, clattering down the wall on the other side, and suddenly Eldabeth was looking at a hole just big enough for her to get through. _More, more. Legolas must get through, as well._

A cry halted her work. She turned in time to see her uncle fall, hand clutching his side. The sword fell to the ground. An orc grabbed his wrist and wrestled the knife free. Within moments, orcs surrounded him, weaponless and bleeding.

Eldabeth lept, rock in hand and pummeled the orc nearest her. It dropped its blade as it brought up its hands to ward her off and Eldabeth ducked a fierce punch. Her hand closed around the hilt of the roughly hewn blade and she swung wildly. The blade met soft resistance, and Eldabeth blanched as the sharp edge sliced through flesh. Swallowing bile, she stepped back to pull the blade free and found herself facing three orcs intent on bringing her down as well.

"Legolas!" She parried heroically if not expertly and managed to keep her head on her shoulders for a few more seconds. "Get up. Get up, get up, get up."

No noise came from his direction, and Eldabeth couldn't look that way. She was too busy frantically dodging orc blades. It wasn't until an orc fell before her that she noticed him up, clutching his bloody side and holding his longknife. She didn't dare ask how he'd gotten it back.

"Go through!" he shouted at her.

She shook her head.

"Go!" His look became desparate, pleading. "Please!"

"I cannot." She ducked under a fierce swing, barely getting under it. "My faith is in you, Uncle." Anger swept the fear and uncertainty from her features and she turned, already swinging the sword. Inexpert, perhaps, but effective, as the blade cleaved into the creature's abdomen. Granted a moment's reprieve, she spoke earnestly. "I found my faith and claimed it. Don't leave me alone."

She fell forward, shoved from behind, and landed on her hands and knees in front of Legolas. Quickly, he pulled her up. Orcs filed in, surrounding them. In the lull that came before the battle, Legolas spoke.

"I hate caves."

"I see why," Eldabeth responded.

This time, there was no laughter as the orcs closed in; they were beyond sport. Bloodlust ruled them now.

_TBC_


	9. Part Eight

Faith,

By Kellen

The already feeble light that shone into the dark corridor dimmed. For a brief moment, Legolas took it as an omen; Fate had abandoned them to their own devices. The orcs crowded around. Legolas lifted his knife, his left arm close in on his side to staunch the bleeding there.

Eldabeth shifted beside him, coming in to protect that side. Legolas grimaced; she really had no idea how to use the sword she held.

Orcs rushed them. Legolas parried high, then came in low. Granted a small reprieve, he spoke to his niece. "Hands closer, widen your stance," here he whirled nearly tripping over his own feet as exhaustion caught up to him. "And always," he continued, backing toward her, "be moving."

"You're giving me a lesson now?" Eldabeth cried as he hastily followed his orders.

"Seems as good a time as any," was the wry response. He spared a moment for a concerned glance. "Don't use it as a club; it's like carving a roast."

"Carving a roast," Eldabeth repeated dubiously. "I don't cook." Legolas stepped back and she did also, staying behind him. Still, that didn't do much good; orcs surrounded them completely and Eldabeth was stepping closer to the group that awaited her.

She looked up, saw them and stopped abruptly. Legolas bumped into her. "Keep moving," he admonished. "Try to make your way out." What he didn't say was plain: Go through this time. No waiting.

Eldabeth nodded and faced the orcs between her and the opening. It wasn't hard to imagine these creatures killing her father. They were foul, evil, but it was the unadulterated glee that they had shown in their torment of the Elves that nearly brought Eldabeth to tears. Her father had fallen in battle and had it been left at that, she might have found release, but these orcs had shown that those who killed Taricir had enjoyed doing so.

Tears stung her eyes at the though of Taricir and spilled onto her cheeks, but her vision did not blur. Instead, it seemed to focus until her entire world consisted of the orcs in her way.

They laughed, and Eldabeth's grief coalesced into white-hot rage.

Rage can fuel a great many things, including resolve and strength, but it does not give the bearer of such rage the experience needed to accomplish the task. Eldabeth was filled with rage, yes, but experience still eluded her and while her wild, strong swings kept the orcs at bay for a few moments, it wasn't long before they realized something: the driving force behind the sword was a frightened girl.

They closed in on her. Whether by luck or fate, Eldabeth wildly parried blow after blow. Soon that rage that filled her being gave way to panic and she whimpered as they pressed closer. "Uncle," she pleaded, looked back over her shoulder at him.

Legolas spun, knife locked hilt to hilt with an orc blade and despair filled him. "Beth, no!"

The leering visage of an orc replaced the shaft of sunlight.

Eldabeth's eyes went wide and she started to turn back as she realized her mistake. The creature's blade was already coming down.

Legolas froze, horror and dread warring with his own panic. The blade would kill her, for when Eldabeth turned to him, she dropped her sword and exposed her vulnerable neck. He did the only thing he could: He dropped his knife and leapt into Eldabeth.

The tip of the orc's sword raked across her collarbone, slicing the skin open to expose the bone. She cried out.

Legolas took no time to register that the blow missed her neck or that she even still lived. He took the sword from her limp hand and cut down the orc that had dealt the blow. He whirled, ready for the next orc, but collided with a reeling Eldabeth. She clutched his tunic.

An orc grabbed his wrist, pulling him off balance and Legolas felt more than saw the blade coming for his unprotected chest.

Eldabeth fell, still holding her uncle's tunic. Legolas stumbled to his knees. The orc's blade passed within inches of his head.

Legolas wrapped an arm around Eldabeth's waist and clumsily leapt sideways, trying desperately to get through the hole.

* * *

Thranduil refused to wait for all his warriors to clear the passageway before he rushed the first of the orcs. To his chagrin, if not his surprise, Mener was on his heels, a war cry on his lips. As the orcs turned at the sound, Thranduil swung his sword, felling an orc.

First blood had been drawn.

The Elves rushed the foul creatures and the orcs turned from the hole they had been congregating around.

"Behind! Behind!" The cry rose from the orcs nearest the passage they spilled from.

The orc nearest Legolas was already swinging his sword and the Elf could not evade the blow. Legolas still moved forward, though, desperate to give Eldabeth a chance.

The orc inadvertantly checked his swing as he turned when the frantic cries came and the flat of his blade impacted with Legolas' shoulder blades, knocking him once more to his knees. Eldabeth fell next to him.

Legolas braced himself, almost certain that this time, the killing blow would come. Certain fate had turned her face away from them.

But no such blow came.

Orcs still milled about them, but they were regrouping near the entrance. Legolas looked up and found his way blessedly clear. "Eldabeth," he breathed. "Come." He spared a glance to her face and found her staring back at him, pain filled eyes still trusting. He lurched to his feet, dragging her with him, toward the dim sunlight.

Toward freedom.

Mener ruthlessly stabbed an orc, pulled his blade free, spun on his heels and swung the sword in a high arc, cleaving open an orc's chest. He whirled around and came to a halt beside Thranduil, sword ready. Kirwen came beside them as all stilled. One of the warriors thrust his sword through the chest of an injured orc.

Thranduil eyed the ledge as all stilled around them. "See what's up there," he ordered and stepped aside as two warriors scaled the ledge and disappeared in the darkness.

Before long, one returned and crouched at the lip. "There are dead orc." Somberly he held up on hand to the light. Red blood coated his fingers. "This, however, is not orc blood," he stated quietly.

Kirwen gasped and started forward.

"There was a small passage through the rockfall," the warrior continued. "There is blood on those rocks."

Thranduil closed his eyes; he had no doubts about where his son had gone.

"There is sunlight," the warrior said. "There may be a way out."

Thranduil nodded. "Follow that trail," he said. "We will circle around from the outside." He turned, catching Mener's eye.

"If it pleases my lord," Mener said quietly, "I would go with those two."

Thranduil nodded. "Valar keep them safe," he murmured as he watched Mener go. He hoped his prayer was not in vain.

* * *

Legolas nearly kissed the grass. Arm still around Eldabeth, he lurched to the nearest tree, caught the trunk and sank to the ground. He stifled a moan as his side was jarred. He dropped the sword and turned Eldabeth so she rested against the tree.

Sorrow clenched his heart. Blood coated her neck and shoulder and her once green bodice was stained dark. "Beth?" He ran his fingers lightly along her jaw and neck, searching for cuts. He almost could not believe the orc had missed cleaving her neck, even faced with proof to the contrary.

He tore a piece of her cloak, silently resolving to get her another to replace this one, once her favorite, and pressed it against her collarbone. Her eyes flew open at the contact.

"Hello, tithen men," Legolas said lightly.

She eyed him, then looked down and fingered the grass, then turned her face to the sun. "We are out," she said quietly.

"Yes."

"Then my faith was not misplaced." She fidgeted.

"Be still."

"You are hurt."

"And you are not?"

Eldabeth grimaced. "I am," she admitted. "I was frightened."

Legolas adjusted his grip, trying to hide just how much he was hurting. "There is no shame in that, Beth."

Suddenly, Legolas stiffened. Eldabeth's eyes went wide and Legolas turned his head enough to see the dark shape snarling, ready to pounce.

"Why?" was all he had time for as the wolf crouched. Iluvatar, why? If he reached for the sword, he left Eldabeth open for attack. Legolas stayed still, back to the wolf, between it and Eldabeth.

The wolf sprang.

Legolas braced himself.

A cry of pure fury reverberated and it took Legolas a moment to realize that sound did not echo from any person's throat. A weight hit his back, but it wasn't the claws and teeth he expected. He rocked forward into Eldabeth.

"Bronwe," Eldabeth breathed.

Legolas managed to turn. Bronwe, indeed. Taricir's big black warhorse stood in front of them, snorting heavily, one forehoof in lifted off the ground and lathered in sweat and dirt. The wolf lay dead at her feet. Legolas thought she never looked more beautiful.

Bronwe returned the gaze and tossed her head before looked down the hill. Legolas turned his head in time to see Mener race toward them.

The End…

…almost. Don't forget the epilogue…


	10. Epilogue

__

Epilogue

A Year Later…

Eldabeth returned Legolas' concerned gaze, her green eyes clouded with grief and understanding. "You know," was all she said.

Legolas nodded. "I came as soon as I heard. My father is on his way."

Eldabeth sighed. "Mener is inside, with her. Saying goodbye." Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. "Legolas, we knew."

He gathered her into his arms, embracing her tightly. "Aye," he said, "we did, but we still mourn her."

"She is with my ada," Eldabeth said quietly. "It is where she was always happiest. She could never live, nor love, life as long as she was separated from him."

Legolas smoothed her hair back before stepping back to look into her eyes. "I believe Kirwen is again the gentle spirit we all loved, now that she wanders Mandos' Halls with Taricir."

"It is that thought," Eldabeth commented bluntly, "that keeps my soul grounded to this world." She smiled at Legolas. "My faith in her happiness, and in my family here, is enough. With Kirwen and Taricir together again, though they be far beyond my reach, I can find joy here." She paused. "That sounds horrible. My parents are both dead and I find it reason to live, and to rejoice for them."

"It is not horrible, tithen men." Legolas shook his head. "May Kirwen find her joy again, and may Taricir be at peace," he breathed.

"Iluvatar will grant it," Eldabeth said softly.

__

The End…

…really!!

Yes, it's a short epilogue, but I have found that sometimes a short, direct way of doing things is often the hardest hitting.

Hope you all enjoyed the ride. :o) I appreciate any and all comments, seeing as how this is really my first finished foray into action and angst. I killed things. I don't often do that!! :o)

Cheers,Kellen


End file.
